Operation Gray Faux
by Mister Takeda
Summary: "Gray Fox has survived. I didn't think it was possible, but somehow, someway, he's done it. I thought I saw him die over a decade ago on Shadow Moses, crushed beneath the feet of Metal Gear. There, he died my ally, but now.. hrmm.. I'm not so sure." "You're being paranoid, Snake. If Gray Fox was alive, we'd know!" "I don't know, Otacon. Just.. keep me posted, alright?"
1. Chapter 1

The sun beat down on the truck. The metal was hot on his body. He had purchased as a souvenir for his friend and sometimes lover, Otacon. He never took him on missions with him because Otacon was fucking useless in the field. He always ended up peeing himself or crying over something or another. Vague memories of a someone's sister. Ah well, it wasn't important. Solid Snake, son of Big Boss, the world's greatest soldier, draped the Happy Panda t-shirt over his head, draping it around his neck. "Got to fit in, he thought." It looked nothing like a turban, but Solid Snake didn't notice. He massaged his aching back.

"War has changed," he mused, bending a Lucky Striker and sliding it between his aging lips, "It's no longer about nations, ideologies or ethnicity."

His compatriot balked. "I joined the army to kill the men who killed my family."

Snake grumbled. "It's an endless series of proxy battles, fought by mercenaries and machines."

"I wish we had machines. I wish I had a rifle that worked." Someone chuckled.

Another man fidgeted with his ancient iDroid-mini, changing the background music to something less melancholic.

"No," Snake groaned weakly. "Listen to my monologue!"

The soldiers ignored him, and Snake collapsed, letting his cigarette slip into somebody's lap. He pounded his gortex covered fist on the bed of the Toyota. The man twitched wildly and yelped, but Snake ignored him. He was angry. These men were ignoring him. Ignoring him because he was old. Not alright. Not alright at all.

As the soldier next to him tried to slap out the smoldering cigarette on his crotch, Snake stood dramatically, his t-shirt head-wrap flapping in the wind, advertising the local Chinese restaurant to all who gazed upon him. He seized the man's iDroid and changed the music back to the melancholic instrumentals he had been subjecting the rebels to for the last half hour, a dirge suitable for his coming words:

"War, and its consumption of life, has become a well-oiled machine. War has changed. ID tagged soldiers carry ID tagged weapons, use ID tagged gear."

"What the hell is he talking about," one of the rebels asked. His friend just shrugged.

"Nanomachines inside their bodies enhance and regulate their abilities. Genetic control. Information control. Emotion control. Battlefield control. Everything is monitored, and kept under control. War has changed. The age of deterrence has become the age of control. All in the name of averting catastrophe from weapons of mass destruction. And he who controls the battlefield, controls history. War has changed. When the battlefield is under total control, war... becomes routine."

No one responded, so he grumbled and returned to his seat. "Must not of heard me over the wind." He thought, fishing another Lucky Striker out of his pack. He snapped it, like so many necks on Shadow Moses, and the tip glowed dully in the desert sun.

* * *

"MOOOOOOOO!"

Snake rolled under the truck. Most of his compatriots laid dead. One was holding his own severed arm, raving wildly.

"I'm getting too old for this shit."

* * *

Snake sat in the plastic chair. It was uncomfortable. His back had been hurting lately, and he didn't know why.

"Mr.. Snake, is it?"

"Hrrmm.."

"Right.. we hear good things about you."

"You don't know the half of it." He said with a cracking voice.

"It says here that you.. once destroyed an M1 Abrams tank with a handful of grenades."

"Piloted by a giant Inuit Shaman. He was a good man," He looked wistful.

"Uh.. and you single-handedly sunk a tanker."

"Yeah."

"An.. American tanker owned by the US Navy?"

"It was invaded by a group of nomadic Russian mercenaries lead by a pregnant woman named Olga. It had to be done."

"It made the news. You're a wanted for terrorism in at least 37 countries."

"Like I said, it had to be done."

"Well, everything seems in order here." The man in the suit suffered some files in a folder. "How do you like the Middle East?"

* * *

"You look a lot older than your profile says you are."

"Just a cold. It will pass."

"Jesus, man. You sound horrible too."

"You want me or not?"

"Simmer down. We want you. We need all the help we can get."

"That's what I hear."

"It's no joke. The Red team is totally steamrolling us."

"Red team.." Snakes eyes narrowed into a mess of crows feet.

"Yeah. We're going to lose the game if this keeps up. Their scouts keep overrunning our base. I fucking hate scouts, man."

"You work for the company, then?"

"Yeah. For five years now. Just got the latest firmware upgrade."

"No substitute for a soldier's intuition."

"Save it for the battlefield, hombre. I'm not the one you're here to impress."

Snake grumbled.

"You seriously look like shit, man. You sure you didn't lie about your age on your CV?"

"It'll pass."

* * *

"MOOOOOOOOO!"

Nano-milk sprayed from the genetically engineered utter jutting from the Gekko's undercarriage. The famous war hero and wanted terrorist found himself coated in an oily green substance. He tasted it. "Hrrmm... Not bad."

"MOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Snake grabbed a watermelon and hurled it at the Gekko's sensor unit. It exploded in a mess of rind and pulp. His target staggered blindly, giving him time to move in for the kill.

The hero of Shadow Moses grabbed the enormous testicles that swung wildly between the bio-mechanical monstrosity's thighs, crushing them hard. "Like watermelons!" he thought, in a much younger voice.

The Gekko went down hard.

"Why did they make you with these things?" Snake wondered, wiping the tasty fluid from his face with his headwrap. He crouched next to the unconscious beast, and seized its teats. He began milking it vigorously, spraying each drop into his empty canteen.

He pressed X and a memory seized him. "In the jungle, you'll have to find your own lunch, and breakfast, and dinner for that matter."

Snake felt invigorated. He had stopped thinking about why his hair had turned white, or why his back wouldn't stop hurting, or why he was experiencing dementia at the age of 42. He was on the battlefield again. He took a long draw from his canteen, slurping the thick green liquid. "Delicious!" He yelled, giving away his position. He didn't care. In one swift motion, he grabbed the alerted soldier's gonads, squeezing them like a ripened melon. The soldier screamed in shock and agony as Snake CBT'd him into unconsciousness.

"Eh.. one of mine." He shrugged, and dragged the man who was fighting to avenge his family's death into the hollowed out remains of a Gold's Gym, shoving him unceremoniously into one of the lockers. "Sleep well, my friend," he said, lighting a Lucky Striker.

* * *

"Broooother!"

"You're not my brother, Ocelot."

"Says yooouu," he droned, cattily.

"You're mentally ill. You chopped off your arm and replaced it with a dead man's. We're not related. You're just obsessed with me and my family because you have some kind of weird crush on my father."

"Big.. Boss.."

"Big Boss..."

Snake pressed X to remember. He was an old, scarred, sporting a robotic arm. He had a familiar look to him. "I'm going to teach you the basics of CQC," he said dryly.

Snake grabbed Ocelots testicles and squeezed hard.

Ocelot didn't resist, which was kind of creepy, but kind of fun too. The mustached-Russian-cowboy-turned-megalomaniac-clone-imitator collapsed in his arms, almost lovingly. "Goodnight, sweet prince," Snake whispered, giving him a gentle, grandfatherly kiss.

* * *

Ocelot awoke in his cell, his robotic arm missing. "Typical," he growled. "So.. are you going to torture me?!" He yelled at his invisible captors.

No response.

"Because if you have to torture me, I'll understand," he said slyly, stroking his mustache with his good hand.

No response.

"They're mocking you, Ocelot!" Cam Clark shouted.

"L-liquid."

"In the psychotic recesses of your mind, Adamska."

"Nobody calls me that any more."

"Oh yes, it's Shalashaska. Or would you prefer just-"

"-LIQUID OCELOT," they said in unison. Someone pressing X to remember.

* * *

"Sew it on."

"This arm is from a three year old corpse, it won't-"

"-SEW IT ON."

* * *

"You're stuck with me, Ocelot. Whether you like it or not."

"Stuck with you? I WANTED this!" Ocelot's mouth frothed slightly as his eyes bulged.

Cam Clark just scoffed in disgust. He hated being a psychic-ghost-arm-turned-brainwashing-regiment in the mind of a man who quite literally thought he was in a cowboy movie. A man who was constantly wondering why everyone wore such strange clothing and why they refused to plan stage coach robberies with him. What the Patriots were thinking when they elected for this troubled man to be their eyes and ears was beyond him. A revolver didn't make sense on the battlefield. It wouldn't have even made sense on the battlefield 50 years ago.

He reached deep into his psyche, probing his troubled thoughts. There was a man, familiar, but distant. The memory taunted him. He knew it held answers, but this jackass kept thinking about having sex with his father, blocking out everything else. If he could only break through, perhaps he could-

"Liquid Ocelot."

"Yes?"

"We understand you were having a little.. adventure, in the Middle East somewhere."

"Oh yes. I was a bad boy!" he growled, "Why don't you punish me?"

"In due time, Liquid. First, we have someone we'd like you to meet."

It was then that she stepped into the cell door. Ocelot though of strangling her with his one good arm, but his injuries had left him weakened. His testicles had swollen to the size of grapefruits, and he could barely stand.

"This douche bag?" EVA groaning with disgust. "I'm really tired of running into you."

* * *

Para-Medic's tits bounced energetically in his face.

"Cyyybooorg," she sung to herself, "Gonna make my very own cyyyboroog."

It was off key and terrifying, and the fact she had ripped open her shirt moments before, tweaking her own nipples right before picking up the industrial drill was more than a little unsettling.

Gray Fox opened his mouth to protest, failing to make only wet gurgling sounds.

"Oh, my little cyborg. I have such plans for you," she said, licking his blood spatters from his forehead.

He remembered the battlefield. Friends locked in mortal combat. Betrayal. Left for dead. Zanzabar Land. He'd done his best to defend the will of their great leader, to uphold his sacred principles in their war against the world.

* * *

Gray Fox saluted the unquestioned leader of the world's only remaining nuclear power. We Wish You a Merry Christmas blared in his ears. He eyes were wet with pride.

* * *

"AAAAAAAAaaaa!"

"Your voice box is working again. That's good... I think," The half-naked genius giggled, her breasts swaying gently in his face.

Pink. Her areolas were pink, he thought.

"Now, let's see if we can get the rest of you working, silly!"

"AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa!" was his tinny scream.

"AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa!" all into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

"RAAAWGH!" The robotic fist punched a hole in the bunker wall.

"I know," the shadowy figure spoke to the angry cowboy. Ooo. Who could it be? Surely not Big Boss. That would be unpossible.

"All their balls?"

"Destroyed," the mysterious figure said gruffly, lighting a cigar with his robotic finger of his own.

"We've got a problem," the cowboy said, suddenly feigning composure, a bullshit act that involved a lot of needless revolver twirling.

"Remember Afghanistan?"

"Hah.. how could I forget?"

"Let's just say, I've got an idea."

The cowboy groaned. "It doesn't involve pornography and crocodile hats, does it?"

"Quiet."

* * *

Johnny Akiba did what he did best, shitting loudly into a rusty barrel.

Snake maintained his composure. They taught you things like this in FOX HOUND. He cleared his mind, ignoring the shower of faeces. He pressed X to remember.

"I sure hope you don't escape! That would ruin my life."

A flash of him spraying ketchup all over the room.

"..ruin my life."

Dreams of Dracula, forking rats, sharing rations. 144.75.

"..ruin my life."

Snake reached up with the serenity and body discipline of a Shaolin monk, seizing the sweaty testicles suspended above him.

"Don't move, or you'll be unconscious till the next time I visit this area."

"Aaah! Aaaaah! That voice!"

Johnny pressed X to remember.

"You don't try to escape, or I'll know. Now just.. wait here. I got to.." Agony! He seized his perfectly toned buttocks as his guts raged.

He ignored the sensation that he'd just brushed against someone as he charged down the hall.

"We're best friends now, right? You promise not to escape? Because Colonel Volgin personally promised me he would track my family down in America and kill them if you do. You've seen their picture. They deserve to live."

The one eyed devil smiled, almost as if his new friend was issuing a challenge.

"No... NOOO! It's YOU!"

"Hrmm.."

"Please! Stay away from me! My dad had to move to Idaho because of you! I got fired from my job! Haven't you done enou-AAAAGGHH!"

The tiniest smirk grossed Snake's aged, shit covered face.

* * *

"Ladies," the Russian paced as he spoke, "You were selected for the.. special properties your sex brings to the battlefield. And no, I don't mean your superior sniping abilities, or your powers of seduction, or even your ability to make skin tight uniforms as effective as a full suit of battle armor. I am referring to this."

He cupped himself, massaging his aching testes.

The discomfort in the room was palpable, but not a single member of FROG unit broke rank. That took discipline.

"Now go out and find your target. Remember, I want him aliivvee!" their commanding officer continued to fondle himself for quite some time.

"MOVE OUT!"

"SIR, YES, SIR!"

* * *

Snake lay splayed on the ground. He was unsure if he had become a man now, as his father implied would be the case, were he ever to lay hands on one, but he had little time to consider the issue, as the shapely thighs wrapped around his neck, choking the life from him.

"I'm.. getting.. too.. old.. for.. this.." he wheezed, wasting pressure oxygen.

A shot rang out, and the strangely clad soldier collapsed on his face.

"Get her off of him," a familiar voice spoke.

As vision returned, an image coalesced before him, an image from his past, one he hoped to never see again.

"Meryl," the exposition escaped from his lips.

"How do you know my name, old man?" She seemed annoyed.

"As cocky as ever," he rasped.

"Get this filthy hobo out of my sight! We've got to clear the building and complete our mission!"

"Meryl, it's me. Snaaake."

"No way, man. You're like, a million years old. You don't think I know how time works, just because I'm a woman? Stop lying, you stupid liar. Stop lying or I'll shoot you in the face."

Snake pressed X to remember, adding slight interactivity to the sometimes hour long cutscenes.

"Stop staring at my ass!"

"OMG! A WOMAN! I WANT TO FUUUUCK YOU!" Snake said suavely.

Returning to the present, Snake repeated the line, verbatim, triggering similar flashbacks in his savior's woman-brain.

"Snake?! It is you! ... What happened?"

"Forget it. It's not important. I need your help."

"We're on a mission, Snake. Besides, you left me to die on Shadow Moses. Why should I help you?"

Snake regretfully remembered pressing [SELECT]. He sighed.

"My special technique won't work on these new soldiers for some reason. Also, I think I'm a man now."

Meryl grunted in disgusted. "...Fine. But only because I'm sentimental. Not because I'm a woman and not capable of making difficult decisions without letting my heart get in my way."

Snake selected the option to jiggled her boobs.

"Cut it out!" She giggled, immediately aroused.

* * *

Meryl used her bullet gun technique to defeat the battalion of scantily clad female commandos. Snake took notes. He'd never considered using guns to kill people before, but it seemed particularly effective in these situations. "Perhaps that's why soldiers usually carry them," he thought, stroking his grey stubble. He withdrew a Playboy from his inventory slot, hoping to contribute. Gazing at the pages raised his PSYCHE meter, as blood rushed to his increasingly unreliable penis, and his proud Japanese soul felt invigorated and pure. HAIDARAAAA!

* * *

"Wow! Meryl! You sure are good at killing!"

"Teehee!" Meryl blushed. "You think so, Snake?"

"Hrrmmm... urrrhhhgg.." Snake mused, before flopping on the ground, crawling like a worm, and spinning wildly on his penis.

"Ugh! Nevermind," Meryl said.

* * *

Lt. Roy Campbell itched beneath his thick woolen sports jacket, the only one he owned. He had spent his week's leave to attend a friend's wedding. Weddings always made Roy uncomfortable. He wasn't entirely sure why. He thought it had something to do with the binding of two souls. The idea made him squeamish. The obligation, the permanence. He could never see himself getting married, even if she was special. His brother had always held different views.

* * *

"I want to introduce you to my wife, Amanda,"

By the time Roy had lifted his eyes, his world had forever changed. She was beautiful, 5'7", red hair, a pure, innocent smile, and the body of a showroom model.

He penetrated her later that evening, her legs wrapped tight around his portly frame. It was a tradition in military circles to share wives among the ranking officers, a kind of sexual _fraternitatis,_ demonstrating the depth of their bonds. Not so, one might think, with door-to-door vacuum salesman, but one night's indiscretion was all the wayward soldier could ask for. He shipped off for San Hieronymo the morning.

* * *

"THEN GET AN ABORTION!" Roy Campbell shouted into the receiver.

The phone clicked. Silence.

"I need a drink."


End file.
